


Potter Book One

by peepmywriting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/F, F/M, Girl Potter, Hermione is a boy, Ron is a girl, So is draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-14 06:49:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13584588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peepmywriting/pseuds/peepmywriting
Summary: Jasmine Potter wasn't normal, everyone knew that. Her family, the Dursleys, hated her because of that. They locked her in a cupboard, treated her like a slave, and made her feel less than human. Things change when the letters start arriving.-Or-Harry's first year but genderswapped and edits and additions put in to my liking.





	1. Chapter 1

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the ;last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

Mr.Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small daughter called Destiny and in their opinion there was no finer girl anywhere. 

 

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small daughter, too, but they had never seen her. This girl was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn’t want Destiny mixing with a child like that. 

 

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Destiny into her high chair. 

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. 

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Destiny goodbye but missed, because Destiny was now having a tantrum and throwing her cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four’s drive. 

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read maps  _ or  _  signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day. 

 

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald green cloak! THe nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were obviously collection for something...yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills. 

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. 

He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. 

 

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard --” 

“Yes, their daughter, Jasmine --”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them,  but thought the better of it. 

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking...no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a daughter called Jasmine. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his niece was called Jasmine. He’d never even seen the girl. It might have been Jason. Or Jaxon. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her -- if he’d had a sister like that...but all the same, those people in cloaks…

 

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door. 

 

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smiled and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off. 

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for him, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination. 

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn’t improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes. 

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly. 

The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife. 

Mrs. Dursley had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her son and how Destiny had learned a new word (“Won't!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Destiny had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening new:

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

 

“Well, Red,” said the weather man, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the iwla that have been acting oddy today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rasin I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.” 

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper about the Potters.. 

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?” 

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they had normally pretended she didn’t have a sister. 

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?” 

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “Owls … shooting stars… and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…” 

“ _ So? _ ” Snapped Mrs. Dursley. 

“Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know…  _ her _ crowd.”

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their daughter -- she’d be about Destiny’s ago now, wouldn’t she?” 

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffy. 

“What’s her name again? Jackson, isn’t it?” 

“Jasmine. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something. 

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? It it did… if it got out that they were related to a pair of -- well, he didn’t think he could bear it. 

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters  _ were _ involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind… He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over -- it couldn’t affect  _ them _ …. 

How very wrong he was. 

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all. 

A lady appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought she’d just popped out of the ground. The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed. 

Nothing like this woman had ever been seen on Privet Drive. She was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of her hair, which was long enough to tuck into her belt. She was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. Her blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and her nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This woman’s name was Avis Dumbledore. 

Avis Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that she had just arrived in a street where everything from her name to her boots was unwelcome. She was busy rummaging in her cloak, looking for something. But she did seem to realize she was being watched, because she looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at her from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse her. She chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.” 

She found what she was looking for in her inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. She flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. She clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times she clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching her. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside her cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where she sat down on the wall next to the cat. She didn’t look at it, but after a moment she spoke to it. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”

She turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead she was smiling at a rather severe-looking man who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. He too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. His black hair was slicked back against his scalp. He looked distinctly ruffled. 

“How did you know it was me?” he asked.

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.” 

“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said Professor McGonagall. 

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.” 

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. 

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” he said impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” he jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”

“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.”

He threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping she was going to tell him something, but she didn’t, so she went on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose she really  _ has _ gone, Dumbledore?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”

“A  _ what? _ ”

“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.” 

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who  _ has _ gone --”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call her by her name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call her by her proper name:  _ Victoria _ .” Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Victoria’s name.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know-oh all right,  _ Victoria _ , was frightened of.”

“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Victoria had powers I will never have. 

“Only because you’re too - well - noble to use them.”

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Mister Pomfrey told me he liked my new earmuffs.”

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, “The owls are nothing next to the  _ rumors _ that are flying around. You know what everyone’s saying? About why she’s disappeared? About what finally stopped her?”

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point he was most anxious to discuss, the real reason he had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a man had he fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as he did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying, he was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told him it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer. 

“What they’re saying,” he pressed on, “Is that last night Victoria turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they’re --  _ dead.” _

Dumbledore bowed her head. Professor McGonagall gasped. 

“Lily and James… I can’t believe it … I didn’t want to believe it…. Oh, Avis…” 

Dumbledore reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “I know… I know... “ she said heavily. 

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as he went on. “That's not all. They’re saying she tried to kill the Potters’ daughter, Jasmine. But---she couldn’t. She couldn’t kill that little girl. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when she couldn’t kill Jasmine Potter, Victoria’s power somehow broke-- and that’s why she’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

“Its---it’s  _ true _ ?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all she’s done . . . .all the people she’s killed . . . she couldn’t kill a little girl? It’s just astounding . . . of all things to stop her . . . but how in the name of heaven did Jasmine survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore . “We may never know.” 

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes beneath his spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as she took a golden watch from her pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though because she put it back in her pocket  and said, “Hestia’s late. I suppose it was she who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Jasmine to her aunt and uncle. They’re the only family she has left now.”

“You don't mean---you  _ can’t _ mean the people who live here?” cried professor McGonagall, jumping to his feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore ---you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this daughter---I saw her kicking her mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets  Jasmine Potter come and live here!”

“It’s the best place for her,” said Dumbledore firmly. “Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand her! She’ll be famous -- a legend -- I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Jasmine Potter Day in the future -- there will be books written about Jasmine -- every child in our world will know her name!”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of her half-moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any girl’s head. Famous before she can walk and talk! Famous for something she won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better off she’ll be, growing up away from all that until she’s ready to take it?”

Professor McGonagall opened his mouth, changed his mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes-- yes, you’re right, of course.But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore?” he eyed her cloak suddenly as though he thought she might be hiding Jasmine underneath it. 

“Hestia’s bringing him.”

“You think it -- wise -- to trust Hestia with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Hestia with my life,” said Dumbledore. 

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can pretend she’s not careless. She does tend to -- what was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the are and landed on the road in front of them. 

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the woman sitting astride it. She was almost twice as tall as a normal woman and at least five times as wide. She looked simply too big to be allowed, and so  _ wild _ \-- long tangles of bushy black hair hid most of her face, she had hands the size of trash can lids, and her feet in their leather boots were the size of baby dolphins. In her vast, muscular arms she was holding a bundle of blankets. 

“Hestia,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, ma’am,” said the giant, climbing carefully of the motorcycle as she spoke. “Young Sirena Black lent it to me. I’ve got her, ma’am.”

“No problems, were there?”

“No ma’am -- house was almost destroyed, but I got her out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. She fell asleep as we was flying’ over Bristol.”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby girl, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over her forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where -- ?” whispered Professor McGonagall. 

“Yes,” said DUmbledore. “She’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well -- give her here, Hestia -- we’d better get this over with.”

Dumbledore took Jasmine in her arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house. 

“Could I -- could I say goodbye to her, ma’am?” asked Hestia. She bent her great shaggy head over Jasmine and gave her what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hestia let out a howl like a wounded dog.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hestia, taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying her face in it. “But I c-c-can’t it -- Lily an’ James dead -- an’ poor little Jasmine off ter live with Muggles--”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hestia, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hestia gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Jasmine gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Jasmine’s blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hestia’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone in Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally,” that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.” 

“Yeah,” said Hestia in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, ma’am.” 

Wiping her streaming eyes on her jacket sleeve, Hestia swung herself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night. 

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to him. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. 

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner she stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. She clicked it one, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and she could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. She could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four. 

“Good luck, Jasmine,” she murmured. She turned on her heel and with a swish of her cloak, she was gone. 

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Jasmine Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside her and she slept on, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that she would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by her cousin Destiny… She couldn’t know at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Jasmine Potter -- the girl who lived!”    



	2. The Vanishing Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

**The Vanishing Glass**

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up t find their niece on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets-- but Destiny Dursley was no longer a baby, and now photographs showed a large blonde girl riding her first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a game with her father, being hugged and kissed by her mother. The room held no sign at all that another girl lived in the house, too. 

Yet Jasmine Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Her aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day. 

“Up! Get up! Now!” 

Jasmine woke with a start. Her aunt rapped on the door again. 

“Up!” she screeched. Jasmine heard her walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. She rolled onto her back and tried to remember the dream she had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. She had a funny feeling she’d had the same dream before. 

Her aunt was back outside the door. 

“Are you up yet?” she demanded. 

“Nearly,” said Jasmine. 

“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Dessy’s birthday.” 

Jasmine groaned. 

“What did you say?” her aunt snapped through the door. 

“Nothing, nothing…”

Destiny’s birthday -- how could she have forgotten? Jasmine got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. She found a pair under her bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Jasmine was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where she slept. 

When she was dressed she went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all Destiny’s birthday presents. It looked as though Destiny had gotten the new computer she wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Destiny wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Jasmine, as Destiny was fat and hated exercise -- unless of course, it involved punching somebody. Destiny’s favorite punching bag was Jasmine, but she couldn’t often catch her. Jasmine didn’t look it, but she was very fast. 

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Jasmine had always been small and skinny for her age. She looked even smaller and skinnier than she was because all she had to wear were old clothes of Destiny, and Destiny was about four times bigger than she was. Jasmine had a thin face, knobbly knees, ever-changing hair, and bright green eyes. She wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Destiny had punched her in the nose. The only thing Jasmine liked about her own appearance was a very thin scar on her forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. She had had it as long as she could remember, and the first question she could ever remember asking her aunt Petunia was how she had gotten it. 

“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had said. “And don’t ask questions.” 

_ Don’t ask questions --  _ that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys. 

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Jasmine was turning over the bacon. 

“Brush your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Jasmine needed a haircut. Jasmine must have had more haircuts than the rest of the girls in her class put together, but it made no difference, her hair simply grew that way -- all over the place. 

Jasmine was frying eggs by the time Destiny arrived in the kitchen with her mother. Destiny looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. She had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blonde hair that lay smoothly on her thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Destiny looked like a baby angel -- Jasmine often said that Destiny looked like a pig in a wig. 

Jasmine put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn’t much room. Destiny, meanwhile, was counting her presents. Her face fell. 

“Thirty-six,” she said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.” 

“Darling you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under the big one from Mummy and Daddy.”

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Destiny, going red in the face.

Jasmine, who could see a huge Destiny tantrum coming on, began wolfing down her bacon as fast as possible in case Destiny turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another _two_ presents while we’re out today. How’s that popkin?  Two more presents. Is that all right?”

Destiny thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally, she said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty… thirty … “ 

“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia. 

“Oh.” Destiny sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. 

Uncle Vernon chuckled. “Little tyke wants her money’s worth just like her father. ‘Atta girl, Deny!” he ruffled Destiny’s hair. 

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Jasmine and Uncle Vernon watched Destiny unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried. 

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said, “ Mr. Figg’s broken his leg. He can’t take her.” She jerked her head in Jasmine’s direction. 

Destiny’s mouth fell open in horror, but Jasmine's heart gave a leap. Every year on Destiny’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movie. Every year, Jasmine was left behind with Mr. Figg, a mad old man who lived two streets away. Jasmine hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and Mr. Figg made her do things she never wanted to do. He made her touch him in ways that made her feel dirty all over. He made her do things with him that made her cry to herself at night. 

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Jasmine as though she’d planned this. Jasmine ought to feel sorry that Mr. Figg had broken his leg, but it wasn’t easy when she reminded herself that it would be a whole year before she had scrub herself red in the shower or cry herself to sleep at night again. 

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested. 

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the girl.” 

The Dursleys often spoke about Jasmine like this, as though she wasn’t there -- or rather, as though she was something very nasty that couldn’t understand them, like a slug.

“What about whats-her-name, your friend -- Yvonne?”

“On vacation in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia.

“You could just leave me here,” Jasmine put it hopefully (she’d be able to watch what she wanted on television for a change and maybe have a go on Destiny’s computer).

Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d swallowed a lemon. 

“And come back and find the house in ruins?” she snarled. 

“I won’t blow up the house,” said Jasmine, but they weren’t listening. 

“I suppose we could take her to the zoo,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, “... and leave her in the car…”

“That car’s new, she’s not sitting in it alone….”

Destiny began to cry loudly. In fact, she wasn’t really crying -- it had been years since she’d really cried -- but she knew that if she screwed up her face and wailed, her mother would give her anything she wanted. 

“Dinky Dessydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let her spoil your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms around her. 

“I… don’t… want… her… t-t-to come!” Destiny yelled between huge, pretend sobs. “She always sp-spoils everything!” she shot Jasmine a nasty grin through the gap in her mother’s arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang -- “Oh, good lord, they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically -- and a moment later, Destiny’s best friend Peyton Polkiss, walked in with her mother. Peyton was a scrawny girl with a face like a rat. She was usually the one who held people’s arms behind their backs while Destiny hit them. Destiny stopped pretending to cry at once. 

Half an hour later, Jasmine, who couldn’t believe her luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys’ car with Peyton and Destiny, on the way to the zoo for the first time in her life, her aunt and uncle hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do with her, but before they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Jasmine aside. 

“I’m warning you,” he had said putting his large purple face right up close to Jasmine’s, “I’m warning you now, girl -- any funny business, anything at all -- and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” said Jasmine, “honestly… “

But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe her. No one ever did,

The problem was strange things often happen around Jasmine and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn’t make them happen. 

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Jasmine coming back from the barbers looking as though she hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of scissors and cut her hair so short she was almost bald except for her bangs, which she left “to hide that horrible scar.” Destiny had laughed herself silly at Jasmine, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where she was already laughed at for her baggy clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, she had gotten up to find her hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. She had been given a week in her cupboard for this, even though she had tried to explain that she  _ couldn’t  _  explain how it had grown back so quickly. 

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force her into a revolting old sweater of Destiny’s (brown with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it over her head, the smaller it seemed to become until finally, it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn’t fit Jasmine. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to her great relief, Jasmine wasn’t punished. 

On the other hand, she’d gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Destiny’s posse had been chasing her as usual when, as much to Jasmine’s surprise as anyone else’s, there she was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Jasmine’s headmistress telling them Jasmine had been climbing school buildings. But all she’d tried to do (as she shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of her cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Jasmine supposed that the wind must have caught her in mid-jump. 

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Destiny and Peyton to be spending the day somewhere that wasn’t school, her cupboard, or Mr. Figg’s cabbage-smelling living room. 

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Jasmine, the council, Jasmine, the bank, and Jasmine were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles. 

“... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,” he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

“I had a dream about a motorcycle,” said Jasmine, remembering suddenly. “It was flying.” 

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Jasmine, his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache: “MOTORCYCLES DON’T FLY!” 

Destiny and Peyton sniggered. 

“I know they don't,” said Jasmine, “It was only a dream.” 

But she wished she hadn’t said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than her asking questions, it was her talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon -- they seemed to think she might get dangerous ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Destiny and Peyton large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then because the smiling lady in the van had asked Jasmine what she wanted before they could hurry her away, they bought her a cheap lemon ice pop. It wasn’t bad, either, Jasmine thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked remarkable like Destiny, except that it wasn’t blond.

Jasmine had the best morning she’d had in a long time. She was careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Destiny and Peyton, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn’t fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting her. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Destiny had a tantrum because her knickerbocker glory didn’t have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought her another one and Jasmine was allowed to finish the first. 

Jasmine felt, afterward, that she should have known it was all too good to last. 

After lunch, they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Destiny and Peyton wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Destiny quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can -- but at the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep. 

Destiny stood with her nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils. 

“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake just snoozed on. 

“This is boring,” Destiny moaned. She shuffled away. 

Jasmine moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself -- no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least she got to visit the rest of the house. 

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Jasmine’s. 

_ It winked.  _

Jasmine stared. Then she looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren’t. She looked back at the snake and winked, too. 

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Destiny, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Jasmine a look that said quite plainly:

_ “I get that all the time.” _

“I know,” Jasmine murmured through the glass, though she wasn’t sure the snake could hear her. “It must be really annoying.”

The snake nodded vigorously. 

“Where do you come from anyway?” Jasmine asked. 

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Jasmine peered at it. 

Boa Constrictor, Brazil. 

“Was it nice there?” 

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Jasmine read on:  _ This specimen was bred in the zoo.  _ “Oh, I see -- so you’ve never been to Brazil?” 

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Jasmine made both of them jump. 

“DESTINY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!”

Destiny came waddling toward them as fast as she could. 

“Out of the way, you,” she said, punching Jasmine in the ribs. 

Caught by surprise, Jasmine fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second Peyton and Destiny were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror. 

Jasmine sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor’s tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits. 

As the snake slid swiftly past her, Jasmine could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, “Brazil, here I come… Thanksss amigo.” 

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. 

“But the glass,” he kept saying, “where did the glass go?”

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Peyton and Destiny could only gibber. As far as Jasmine had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon’s car, Destiny was telling them how it had nearly bitten off her leg, while Peyton was swearing it had tried to squeeze her to death. But worst of all, for Jasmine at least, was Peyton calming down enough to say, “Jasmine was talking to it, weren’t you, Jasmine?”

Uncle Vernon waited until Peyton was safely out of the house before starting on Jasmine. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, “Go -- cupboard -- stay -- no meals,” before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy. 

Jasmine lay in her dark cupboard much later, wishing she had a watch. She didn’t know what time it was and she couldn’t be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, she couldn’t risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food. 

She’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as she could remember, ever since she’d been a baby and her parents had died in that car crash. She couldn’t remember being in the car when her parents had died. Sometimes, when she strained her memory during long hours in her cupboard, she came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on her forehead. This, she supposed, was the crash, though she couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from. She couldn’t remember her parents at all. Her aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course, she was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house. 

When she had been younger, Jasmine had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take her away, but it had never happened: the Dursleys were her only family. Yet sometimes she thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know her. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to her once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Destiny. After asking Jasmine furiously if she knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at her once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken her hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Jasmine tried to get a closer look. 

At school, Jasmine had no one. Everybody knew that Destiny’s posse hated that odd Jasmine Potter in her baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Destiny’s posse. 


End file.
